Niko’s Eye

Chapter 76.

Isis.

Black heavens are the perfect stage upon which the brightest of hues dance. I could watch the aurora lights for infinity and always see that it is new, a unique moment and beauty in all of existence. Aurora lights, green rivers in the black heavens, a congregation of stars, how they resonate with my soul.

Isis stood at the balcony of her bedroom, looking up the painted heavens. The atmosphere deepens through an ombre of blues until it reaches a perfect starlit black.

Her mind drifted to Aisha.

They say a bad parent was a traumatised child, caught in the fires of their own suffering, their thoughts more hurricane than poetry or soul. I guess that’s right. In that exists a road to forgive, a way to see the bigger picture and move on with your own soul intact, head held high. When we see it we can learn to heal, learn to love anew and be a person we approve of in a way that is deep and calm. Then we can become the good parents and start a new cycle that is loving and healthy, plant a good seed in the rotten wood and watch the new spring growth.

She casually strode over to the canopy that she was seated on and picked up the book that she had been reading before the aurora lights had showed up. She was independant now.

Becoming independent is an adventure for sure, yet one I want to go into with both eyes open. I can’t be one of those as the hampster on the wheel, or one who justifies their days as a way to a comfortable old age... there is so very much more to living: nature, joy, music, dance, friends and love. So as I take these steps to independence, it is with those things as priorities. I want to really live and be so grateful for a the opportunity to do so, not take the blinkers that come with so many "dollar bills."

Between the pages of Isis’ book, was a dandelion, pressed and flat. It had left a yellow stain that brushed over the ink like a gentle stroke of water colour. The petals are still sunshine in delicate lobes and the stalk still has the greenness of spring. Isis’ face splitted into a grin.

I trust myself to use a weed as a bookmark.

She had always been an intellect. One who always had her head dived deep into a book. She remembered a random day in class when she was still bright-eyed and bushy and trying to ignore the fact that she felt inferior in her own home.

So, quick question, sorry, I raise my hand so often. Busy brain, what can I say? So, is a "bachelor’s" degree called that because it is the study men were supposed to do before they got married? If so, as a woman, did I earn a "spinster"? If so, do records come with that, old vinyls and stuff. I could be a spin-stir. Though somehow it sounds less flattering than "bachelor."

She giggled at the memory. She also thought of her school backpack. It had been so unique.

The backpack had broad shoulder straps that feel quite natural even with the weight added. With it I walked a little taller, felt the straightening of my back and my head rise a little higher. Somehow it was easy to carry, almost easier than having being free of it.

I actually had a normal life. Before Alejandro, and before discovering my mother’s shenanigans. Do I need to see a psychiatrist? I have been through an awful lot.

From the shadows comes a form. I know it’s Alejandro from the looping strides that almost look like a moon-walk. Somehow I think the gravity has been turned down only around him. I try to keep my smile on the inside only, he really wouldn’t like his gait to be a source of amusement. For all his casualness he’s paper thin underneath. He’d never lash out, only make a self-deprecating joke, but I see the hurt in his eyes the other’s don’t. It’s a good thing too, a bleeding heart gets you nowhere in this town and I kinda like having him around.

And I miss Zainab. My goodness. The truth is, you can only identify your friends by the content of their character, by how they love and seek to see the world through the perspectives of the oppressed, poor and hungry. Your friends can have any ethnicity and be from any economic class. So tune out the speech of hate and tune in the stories of tyranny and violence - then follow the development of trauma populations and see them through the lens of compassion. We are born to thrive together as one species and to both listen and see through our hearts. We do not inherit the sins of our fathers, but if we have inherited privilege then it is our duty to help others and remove power dynamics. I am only free when we all are. I only have peace internally and externally when we all do.

Sergio.

Carl ran his hand through his close cropped hair three times in quick succession and fixed his father in a stare that could have frozen the Pacific. He snarled more than spoke. "Once I get a deposit together I’m outta here. I’m gonna be independent, get my own place, decorate it better than this s**t hole you provide. You’re not a Dad, you’re a fail, a loser. You don’t even make twenty bucks an hour!" His father dropped his gaze to the floor and hooked his thumbs into his worn jeans. These long years since Carl’s mother had died had been the toughest. Shouting at his son never worked and he didn’t have the chops for it anymore.

"Son, I will support you no matter what you decide, but nobody is independent, that’s just the biggest myth out there."

"No, Dad, it’s not. I make more than you already, I’m going and you can’t stop me."

"Son, I’m not stopping you, but I love you, and like I said, no-one is independent." Carl took a step towards his Dad, a vein almost popping in his temple and his fists tightly clenched. The old man stayed right where he was. "Everyone depends on someone, Carl. Someone’s gotta pour that concrete for your condo, someone empties the trash, someone grows your food. Hell, even if you go live in a mountain hut you still depend on the wildlife. I know you’re angry son, but you’re not the only one that loved her. I lost her too." Carl took another step forwards, now almost nose to nose.

"She was an angel and you cheated on her with, what was her name again? Was she someone you ’depended on,’ Dad?" The old man stayed still, it was bad enough that he’d never forgive himself, but to Carl it was like he’d killed her.

He woke up.

It was just a dream.

But it was the reflection of his fear. He was afraid that his children would find out everything about Aisha and turn against him.

The paranoid have learned how to see the "bad wolf" in everyone, even in those whom are family and friends, yet not learned how to see their inner struggle with their "good wolf" self. We all have this struggle and only when you can identify this triggering process within yourself will you see it in others and be able to make allowances for them, responding in ways that bring out their inner "good wolf," that enable them to switch back to their better self all the faster. To do this you must have let go of your own inner masks, you must know yourself as you really are, all illusions down. For those who fool themselves are easily fooled. Those who know themselves and learn how to become their best self can know and guide others to achieve the same. Paranoia can be beaten when you realise where you are and the battle you are waging.

When stressed and afraid, the human brain is only made better at learning and remembering things we fear - it locks us in with our demons and gives them longer claws. It makes us want to hide in the dark and make no sound, ready to fight if we need to. In this state we invent new monsters, we look for more, desperate to survive... though in truth the stress may have been caused by poverty... the result is that we amp up the fear of whatever we’ve been conditioned or directed to fear. We loose the ability of the higher mind to hush those fears and restore inner peace; all other types of learning need a more relaxed and calm state. They need a little light to show that the "monsters" are only clothes in the closet, that perhaps a fancy dress costume made an interesting shadow, but everything is okay. Calmness is as the dawn when the real world is seen, and the actors pulling the levers of fear are revealed.

"I think I’ve got to kill her," he whispered.